The Weight of Knowledge
by Brad'sPyjamas
Summary: They say that a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Learning about Sherlock's relationship with food, while not exactly dangerous, does set John on a path to the one situation he never thought he'd find himself in.
1. An Experiement and a Decision

**Author's Note:**

Firstly - Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Moffat and Gatiss - no copyright infringment intended!

More importantly - this is Post-Reichenbach Johnlock and involves food and weight issues.

The 'rules' John discovers aren't made up – they used to be mine. Needless to say this could contain triggers if you have issues with food as I wasn't in a good place in my life when I followed them.

This is a very self indulgent piece on my part, more cathartic than anything else, though I've written from John's perspective because I actually couldn't write much from Sherlock's – too close to home I guess! However the tone of this isn't dark and the ending is quite fluffy and positive.

So, if I haven't completely put you off, please read on

* * *

An Experiment and a Decision

If you'd told John three months and one day ago that he'd have got himself into this predicament he'd have suggested you might be, well, losing the plot a little bit. After all he knew how to take care of his own body, he was a doctor for God's sake and besides, Sherlock wasn't interested in him in that way. Heaven knows John wanted him to be but however strange Sherlock had been since he'd made his miraculous return it wasn't because he felt for John what John felt for him. No, John was just reading too much into the fact that Sherlock had missed his best friend while he was off dispatching Moriarty's goons and wanted to remain ... close. That was definitely all there was to it, nothing else at all, end of story.

Isn't it funny what a difference a day makes?

And yes, you're right - although that was hardly a difficult deduction, now was it - John and Sherlock have been together, in every sense of the word, for exactly three months. And you're also right that this story is about how they got from there to here. Here, by the way, being John standing in what used to be Sherlock's bedroom and is now theirs as Sherlock hovers in the doorway while they have a rather over-emotional conversation about, amongst other things, a pair of John's trousers.

But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Right now you need to know how they got together in the first place.

Unsurprisingly, given the level of denial John was in about it all, it was Sherlock who made the first move, choosing to announce his intentions in his own inimitable fashion. His method of courtship involved pinning John to the wall of an alleyway he'd dragged him into so they wouldn't be visible to Lestrade and his team, kissing him with an enthusiasm that almost made up for his lack of technique and only then saying "John, I seem to have become irrationally and irretrievably attached to you. I believe you feel the same but I would like to hear you confirm that."

John, once he'd got his breath back and decided that yes, that really had just happened, had replied "Yes, I love you too, you lunatic" and then proceeded to instruct Sherlock not only in the art of kissing but several other things that followed on from that. Sherlock had muttered, when his mouth wasn't otherwise occupied, that he hadn't really understood how John had come by the nickname "three-continents" Watson up until that point but now it all made sense.

Lestrade had also made reference to the nickname – although not in a complimentary way - when he found them; drawn away from the crime scene by a particularly loud cry John had wrung from Sherlock with his deliciously talented mouth and fingers. They were lucky the D.I. hadn't booked them for public indecency - and even luckier that they'd both finished by the time he got there - but they didn't get off scot free. Instead of taking themselves back to Baker Street for hot showers, sleep and more sex - definitely not in that order - they found themselves, on pain of their antics being shared with the rest of the world in general and Anderson in particular, returning to the Yard to assist in the other case Lestrade was working. The one Sherlock had refused to help him with earlier in the week, deeming it uninteresting and not worth his time.

By that point they'd been awake for over twenty four hours and, as they followed Lestrade down the corridor to his office, only the remnants of the endorphin rush he'd just had and the thought of the much needed caffeine injection he'd been promised was keeping John on his feet. When they passed a vending machine his stomach informed him that something more substantial than coffee would also be appreciated so he got a Mars Bar. Not healthy, not by a long shot, but right then he needed the sugar rush more than he cared about the calories. Jogging to catch up with Sherlock while he opened the wrapper John snapped the end off the bar in his haste. Not really thinking about what he was doing he offered the broken bit to Sherlock as they walked through the office door.

Sherlock had looked mildly surprised for a second, eyed both pieces suspiciously but then gave a small nod and allowed John to place the chunk on his palm. He didn't eat it though, not until John had swallowed his final mouthful but then he demolished it in two bites. Lestrade had given a John a very significant look - to be honest John thought it might have been the first time Greg had ever seen Sherlock eat - but when he spoke it was to ask Sherlock's opinion on a crime scene photo.

Thankfully the case had been easily solved – Sherlock had been right, it was uninteresting – and in the week that followed the flurry of sex, violin concertos and random discussions at odd times that constituted Sherlock and John becoming Sherlock_ AND _John put the Mars Bar incident quite out of John's mind. Right up until Lestrade did something similar with a biscuit, that was, and Sherlock reacted as if the man had been trying to poison him.

By the time Sherlock had calmed down, John had apologised to Lestrade three times and Anderson and Donovan had run out of rude comments, John was gripped with curiosity. Whether consciously or not, Sherlock apparently had _rules_ governing the acceptance of food and John wanted, no he _needed_, to know what they were.

Over the next month, thanks largely to a sudden surge in activity of the more cerebral of London's criminals, John had ample chance to surreptitiously test his hypothesis that while Sherlock would not eat when told to and certainly didn't seek food for himself while he was on a case, he _would_ eat if food, possibly only food that belonged to John, was offered in the right circumstances.

What John discovered was this:

1. He was right about the food having to be his.  
If it wasn't John's food, being handed over by John, Sherlock's reaction was … unpredictable was far too polite a term for it. John had only tested this with Mike and Molly but, given that he now a) owed Mike a new shirt and several pints due to an incident with a vial of iodine and b) had spent the afternoon following Molly offering Sherlock half of her packet of quavers holding a paper bag for her to breath into and then listening to her talk about Toby the Cat while she sobbed into his shoulder, he'd decided he didn't need any more data about that particular rule.

2. It had to look spontaneous.  
The carrot chunks had been rebuffed, as had the slices of apple, both of which John had prepared and taken with him. Initially he'd thought it was the type of food being offered but then the end of a banana had been taken, as had a stick of celery from a bunch he'd bought from a market stall. The final test had been a carrot nicked from the kitchen of a crime scene. Sherlock had laughed when John waved it at him, made a reference to Bugs Bunny and eaten the end John handed him quite happily. John was so surprised that a cartoon rabbit had survived deletion he almost choked on his first mouthful; apparently Mummy had once likened Mycroft and his continual nibbling of sweets to Bugs and his ever present carrot and Sherlock had never been able to bring himself to wipe the memory of Mycroft's subsequent tantrum and Mummy's laughter.

3. The proportion mattered.  
If he tried to hand over more than a quarter of whatever he had, Sherlock wouldn't take it at all, plus the next time anything was offered the item would be subjected to far greater scrutiny before it was accepted. Discovering this particular peccadillo had resulted in John consuming - amongst other things - the entirety of one of Angelo's garlic flatbreads as well as a bowl of Spaghetti Alfredo, the whole of a large Cornish pasty barely an hour after he'd had lunch with Mrs Hudson and quite a few bars of chocolate before he realised what the tipping point was. He'd surprised himself by being quite adept at hiding the fact he was uncomfortably full and more than a little pleased that his experiments had - due to the acting skills Sherlock was always telling him he didn't possess - gone unnoticed; he had no doubts that if Sherlock realised what he was up to his reaction would be more than a bit not good.

4. John couldn't ask.  
If John actually asked Sherlock whether he wanted some of his food, as opposed to just physically offering it, the answer was always no. John could speak though; a meal at their favourite Chinese had solved that one. John starting by waxing lyrical about his ginger chicken before abruptly saying "Here," and plopping a large spoonful on Sherlock's plate. Sherlock made no objection, continuing to nibble on a wonton and make observations about the other diners but once John had spooned up the last of his sauce he'd picked up his chopsticks and delicately finished every scrap. He'd even added a spoonful of rice to it in order to absorb the sauce, although John was too mesmerised by his fingers sliding up and down the chopsticks to pay attention to that fact until later. Much later, after he'd taken Sherlock home and lavished those beautiful digits with as much attention as he could physically muster.

5. Acceptance didn't guarantee consumption.  
Unless he was particularly distracted, Sherlock wouldn't take even a nibble of his share of the food until John had consumed all of his own portion. Considering John didn't often waste food he'd almost not noticed this rule at all but the few times they'd had to rush off somewhere and John had abandoned a snack he'd later found Sherlock's part tucked in a pocket or hidden somewhere else. He'd wondered, briefly, whether Sherlock had left his food for the same reasons John had but a few judicious "abandonments" later and he was certain. If John didn't finish his share, Sherlock wouldn't consume anything.

John knew he should have found the list concerning, after all it was concrete proof that his lover's relationship with food was far from healthy, but he didn't. It was all so … so _Sherlock_ that he couldn't bring himself to worry about it. Besides, he was honestly more concerned about the alarming effect that their higher than normal case load, combined with the fact that they were - not to put to fine a point on it - shagging like extremely athletic rabbits at every given opportunity, was having on Sherlock.

The man was shedding weight he simply couldn't afford to lose faster than it was safe to do so and John was witnessing it at much closer quarters than he had ever done before. When he found that he could count Sherlock's ribs by feel _through_ the material of his shirts, not just when they were in bed together, John knew he couldn't just hope the situation would fix itself any more. He couldn't stand by and let Sherlock damage his body any more that he already had, not now they were finally together, finally how they were meant to be. He couldn't lose him a second time.

Six months down the line, when John could talk about it all without burning with embarrassment, he would ruefully agree that he should have tried to talk to Sherlock first. Should have told him how worried he was, how much it hurt to see him shrinking before his eyes and apparently unconcerned about his own health. And Sherlock, after entwining their fingers and pressing a kiss to John's temple, would admit that, considering his past reactions to anything he classed as 'being told what to do' made Caligula seem like the model of propriety, John's fear that any discussion on the matter might generate hostility and more problems rather than help resolve the issue was perfectly reasonable.

And that was quite a round-about way of saying that John chose not to talk to Sherlock. He didn't tell Sherlock he was worried, didn't ask Sherlock to try and eat a bit more each day and he certainly didn't mention that he had noticed any change in Sherlock's body.

Instead he decided to try and get Sherlock's weight back to medically acceptable levels without saying anything to the other man at all. After all he knew the rules now, knew how to get Sherlock to eat without him getting upset, he could simply engineer what he ate to ensure Sherlock got sufficient nutrition from what John gave him. It was a win-win situation – Sherlock got healthy, John got to take care of him and no-one got distressed – practically the perfect plan.

Yes, you might well raise your eyebrows for all the good it will do. This is John after all, the man who killed for Sherlock twenty four hours after meeting him for the first time. When has he _ever_ given any consideration to his own well-being when Sherlock was in danger?

* * *

_**This isn't my usual writing style so I would really appreciate and con-crit you can offer!**_


	2. Operation Increase

**Author's Note:**

Yup - Sherlock still belongs to the BBC, Moffat and Gatiss - no copyright infringement intended, I'm just borrowing it all for my own amusement!

* * *

Operation Increase

John had decided that Operation Increase – no, just don't, it really isn't his fault he spent so long in the Army that _naming_ everything became second nature – would be set in motion as soon as Sherlock had solved their current case. A case that had thus far involved four dead bodies, John spending three hours wearing a hedgehog glove puppet by the name of Mr Prickles whilst talking in a squeaky voice about road safety to groups of seven year olds and Sherlock giving an impromptu recital of "Chip the glasses, Crack the plates" in order to infiltrate a Tolkien appreciation society. He was definitely, John thought as he and Sherlock watched the sun rise from inside one of the freezing viewing huts at an Otter Sanctuary in Cornwall, going to call this "A Study in Strangeness" when he wrote it up for the blog; both for the disparate elements of the case and for Sherlock's methods of solving it.

Four arctic hours later – late October was not the time to be lurking in drafty, puddle filled shacks in any part of the British Isles – two women were in custody, John was amazed at the lengths some people would go to in the name of unrequited love and he and Sherlock were wrapped round each other on the back seat of one of Mycroft's cars; ostensibly for warmth but John had hoped for something a little more invigorating. Unhelpfully, Sherlock had simply muttered something about a celebration dinner at Angelo's and then fallen asleep on John's shoulder, leaving John to spend the four hour drive planning meals and snacks in his head and attempting to ignore the effects the warm gusts of Sherlock's breath over his collar bone were having on him.

Sherlock had woken when they reached Central London, taken one look at the state John was in and proceeded, with whispered words and light touches alone, to take John to the edge just as they arrived at 221B. Two hours later, after Sherlock had mapped every single inch of John's skin with his mouth and reduced him to a writhing, begging mess, first on the sofa, then again in their bed and finally in the shower – "third time lucky" Sherlock had purred into John's ear over the sound of the spray and John's moans – John was floating on such an endorphin high that he felt like he could do anything. Which might go some way to explaining the frankly obscene amount of food he ordered when they got to Angelo's.

To be fair to John he _had _been absolutely starving when they got to the restaurant – having three of the most intense orgasms of your life when all you've eaten is an apple, three quarters of a flapjack and two coffees will most certainly give you an appetite - but most of his decisions on what he wanted were based on his desire to get a full days food into Sherlock at one sitting. Not intelligent, he later conceded, not intelligent at all.

He was feeling full by the time he'd finished his part of the gnocchi starter and uncomfortably so once he'd got a quarter of the way through the huge plate of lasagna he'd picked as his main course. By the time he'd swallowed the final mouthful of his garlic bread and all that was left on the table was Sherlock's share he was desperate to undo his jeans - the waistband having gone from tight to viciously constricting about half a plateful earlier – and just lie down until his stomach stopped hurting so damn much. As Sherlock finished up the remainder of his meal and they continued to talk through the details of the case together John thought he was doing a good job at hiding just how badly he'd overeaten. That delusion was shattered the instant they stood to leave; the moan of pain he couldn't quite hold back eliciting a knowing look from Sherlock followed by him haling a cab instead of turning and walking for home like usual.

Sherlock didn't say anything in the cab and John - who in his food induced haze assumed the silence was down to Sherlock sulking - thought he'd have to abandon the plan before he'd really started. However, as Sherlock followed John up the stairs to the flat, he started one of his lightning fast deductions. It began with a brisk description of the effects of eating so fast your stomach doesn't register that it's being filled until you've eaten too much "_which, John, is exactly what you did and thus why you're so uncomfortable now"_, made a brief detour via the capacity of a human stomach _"a maximum of four litres, which you haven't got close to, John, but it was a spirited attempt"_ and then reviewed what John had eaten up to that point, "_not nearly enough for a normal human and no I don't include myself in that, John, don't glare."_ Sherlock concluded with the statement that _"you really must eat more regularly, John, so you don't get that hungry again. I don't like watching you suffer."_

If John had been able to do more than sob with relief as he eased himself into a horizontal position on the sofa and opened his _"fucking hell they're tight"_ jeans - and the sight of his stomach expanding the instant he got the buttons open hadn't made him feel sicker than he already did - he'd have danced for joy; Sherlock, for once, had observed but not understood and remained oblivious to John's real motivation for the gluttony. That didn't, however, mean John would ever countenance a repeat performance, despite his success in getting a proper meal inside the other man. Sherlock might have misread his intentions once but counting on him to misunderstand again would have been foolish in the extreme and John didn't want to do anything that might force him to stop before he had any meaningful effect on Sherlock's health; one full meal did not a cure make, not by anyone's standards.

Besides, if getting from the restaurant to the flat and then onto the sofa hadn't been bad enough, what followed was a true exercise in humiliation.

John had ended up having to ask Sherlock to help him get to bed, since every time he so much as shifted an inch the pain in his abdomen just got worse and he couldn't force himself up off the sofa on his own. Then - just to put the cherry of mortification on the cake of embarrassment - when John had been unable to get anywhere approaching comfortable once he was in bed, Sherlock had solved that too; helping John sit forward and then insinuating himself behind him so John could lean back against his chest. He then massaged the straining, agonizingly solid bulge of John's stomach – John's brain had fleetingly, and very unhelpfully, pointing out that his food baby looked well into its second trimester - until it had stopped hurting enough for John to fall asleep.

John had wanted to curl up and hide when he woke the next morning to find Sherlock was still cradling him and his bloated – although significantly flatter – abdomen; long fingers tracing tiny, soothing circles over the tender but no longer drum tight flesh. Not that Sherlock appeared to mind in the slightest – in fact the circles had become caresses once he'd realised John was awake and then turned into the most gentle, slow and, dare it be said, romantic sex they'd had thus far – but still John vowed he would never eat that much again. Sherlock's views on those ate to excess were not exactly complimentary – you only had to listen to him sneering at Mycroft to know exactly what he thought about anyone who couldn't control what they put in their mouth – and although he appeared to have dismissed the incident as a mere aberration, John was certain that he wouldn't be so accepting if it were repeated.

So the days following were filled with incredibly well balanced meals and snacks in large but not excessive portions as John concentrated on getting quality food into Sherlock. A task that was made much easier by the fact that they were, finally, between cases and Sherlock seemed content to remain in the flat; either working on various experiments or catching up on the articles in the scientific journals he subscribed to that had been neglected in favour of becoming proficient – bloody brilliant, actually, if you asked John - in the arts of sex and seduction. If you're wondering - which you probably are given that you're still reading - you'll be as pleased as John and Sherlock were to find that their sex life did not have a directly proportional relationship with their case load. A fact that indirectly assisted Operation Increase since Sherlock seemed to have decided that John's evening of overindulgence had been a direct result of the extra energy he had expended beforehand – i.e. having his mind and other things blown by Sherlock – and exacerbated by the fact that John had been hungry to start with. Thus he took to asking John if he needed to eat every couple of hours and had even - on the occasions when the sex had been even more vigorous than was usual – actually brought John tea and chocolate biscuits afterwards.

John would have preferred to weigh Sherlock so he could accurately gauge exactly what, if any, success the Operation was having but since they didn't even have a pair of scales in the flat – never mind how he would have explained to Sherlock his sudden desire to get him on them every week in the first place - he settled for measuring with eyes and hands alone. So when it became clear, almost two weeks in, that the current approach was only halting the decline rather than reversing it, he decided he needed to do some research away from prying eyes and easily accessible internet histories.

Sherlock had merely grunted when John said Sarah had asked for some help with the last of the flu inoculations – too involved in a particularly complex experiment involving a human liver, ionized water and the sweat from a tropical frog to even look up – and John escaped to the surgery undetected. Not wanting to have actually lied to Sherlock he did spend half an hour administering injections to the elderly but then retreated to Sarah's office with a pen, a calculator and several books on nutrition; she'd been happy enough to give him some desk space once he'd offered to cover a couple of her shifts at the start of December so she could go Christmas shopping.

The calories were the problem, John concluded after an hour of calculations, or rather the lack of calories; his current meal plan simply didn't contain enough for Sherlock to actually put any weight on. The next hour was spent trying to figure out a way to reach the requisite calorific target whilst still including enough fruit and veg to satisfy John's instincts for balanced, healthy meals. Then he actually thought about the volumes he'd have to eat each day if he did that and promptly – the memory of _that_ meal still fresh in his mind - spent another hour creating a menu using foods that would have enough calories per portion to do the job without him having to fill his stomach to maximum capacity every day. After all, he reasoned, this wasn't a permanent change to how he ate so it wouldn't do him any damage.

A stop at Tesco's on the way home for the appropriate foodstuffs - almost more than he could carry thanks to an abundance of seasonal two for one offers on the things he wanted – and John was set. He was also resolutely ignoring his own misgivings about how difficult he was going to find this complete reversal of his eating habits in favour of imagining Sherlock filling out that purple shirt of his the way he used to and exactly what would follow when John divested him of it.

Sherlock didn't even blink at the volume of sugary, calorie laden treats contained in the bags John unceremoniously dumped on the counter and began shoving in the cupboards when he arrived home. Initially because he hadn't look up from his experiment but then, when he did, John's arse was right at eye level - clad in tantalising tight denim and hinting at all sorts of wonderful activities – and his thoughts had derailed onto a far more ... interesting track. Abandoning the experiment without a backward glance, Sherlock pressed himself to John's back, wound his arms round John's waist, murmured something about pre-Christmas treats as John pulled out a packet of mince pies and then began sucking on the pulse point in John's neck in a manner that resulted in a good hour and a half's delay to the rest of the unpacking.

John spent the next three days feeling sick and lethargic while his body tried to adjust to the influx of processed carbs and sugar that now made up the majority of his meals. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed to revel in the new offerings and John had to be grateful that his sweet tooth, combined with a particularly interesting cold case Lestrade had palmed off on him, meant that he hadn't questioned either the change in John's diet or his demeanour. Each time he forced himself to eat - to take a Danish or a Snickers bar rather than an apple, to make bacon and cheese toasties for lunch rather than just a ham salad, to order a cream based curry rather than his beloved Tandori Chicken - he thought about the feel of Sherlock's ribs under his hands, how fragile the body of the man he loved had become. When the nausea had almost got too much to bear and he was tempted just to stop the whole thing, John made himself remember the blood on the pavement and the crushing, debilitating press of grief that had gripped him when he thought he'd lost the chance to ever talk to Sherlock again. He only had to do it once. The pain that pulsed through him at the thought flipping him into warrior mode at once. He was a soldier, he could endure, he could push himself to the edge. The drill sergeant in his head shouted over and over that this was one challenge he would not, _could not_, back down from.

Two weeks on and John no longer had to make himself stick to his plan. This was partly because his body had adjusted and had begun to actively crave chocolate, crisps and pastries but mostly due to the fact that he could both see and feel Sherlock putting on weight. There was more flesh over Sherlock's ribs – although they were still far to prominent for John's liking – his vertebrae weren't so visible and his face had finally lost the pinched look it had obtained in his year on the run. The regular food intake also seemed to have had an effect on Sherlock's personality. He'd begun to say thank you whenever John handed over food, or tea, or passed him something he'd demanded. Then there were the bits of housework round the flat that John had initially attributed to Mrs Hudson's _"not your housekeeper"_ routine until he actually caught Sherlock tidying up their bedroom.

He'd also become increasingly tactile, both in public and when they were alone. In public it was just gentle touches to John's arms or the small of his back and occasionally taking his hand but in the flat he didn't seem to be able to keep away. If he wasn't wrapping his arms round John while John was cooking or making tea Sherlock was running his hands across John's chest and shoulders or cupping his arse as often as he could and, more often than not, he would curl himself round John while they watched TV; head pillowed on John's lap or chest, hands round his waist or gently stroking a leg. John thought this was less to do with him being properly fed for the first time in years and more to do with Sherlock getting used to being in a relationship but either way he wasn't complaining. Quite the opposite in fact. He'd never been made to feel this loved or wanted by anyone before and he made sure to show Sherlock exactly how much he appreciated the attention and the feelings were most definitely reciprocated.

After five weeks - in which more calories were consumed than any normal person could contemplate - John was jubilant as he watched Sherlock get dressed; the shirt and trousers he put on actually looked like they were made for him, rather than simply hanging off his frame and giving the impression he'd been dressing in someone else's things. Although maybe he couldn't claim all the credit for that, John thought as he pulled his own clothes on and, yet again, had to struggle to get his shirt and jeans to button. Sherlock's attempt at doing laundry – which had clearly resulted in the shrinking of every items of clothing they owned – might have had something to do with it as well.

And yes, you're right again, as far as John was concerned denial _was _just a river in Egypt; his sub-conscious happily providing convincing explanations for all the little – or not so little - clues that should have had the doctor in him screaming that Sherlock wasn't the only one putting on the pounds.

"Shrunk in the wash" clothing aside, the fact that he now struggled to keep up with Sherlock when they dashed through London after suspects was put down to the onset of a cold combined with lingering lethargy from the change in diet. Mrs Hudson patting him on the arm and saying "love suits you Dr Watson, you're positively blooming" was dismissed as just something women of a certain age say when they think you look happy. Anderson's snide remark to Donavan that "it looks like he swallowed a cupboard full of the stuff" when John handed Sherlock a quarter of his chocolate bar was a) assumed to be aimed at Sherlock – who was talking to Lestrade and hadn't heard - and b) attributed to the fact that Anderson was a Class A tosser who didn't like the fact that Sherlock was starting to look well again.

Even when Molly, who he hadn't seen for a while, widened her eyes when he walked in and then stuttered that he was _"looking well, uh, very cuddly ... Oh no, content, I meant content"_ he put it down to her being flustered by the positively predatory look Sherlock was giving him over the top of a very dead drug dealer. Fifteen minutes later - when Sherlock yanked him into the morgue storage cupboard and demonstrated exactly how much pleasure could be had whilst fully clothed in a space that really wasn't big enough for both of them – her words flew completely out of John's mind.

In the end it was Mycroft who unwittingly – at least it seemed unwitting, even to Sherlock, so just this once we'll give him the benefit of the doubt – forced John to face the truth, by the simple expedient of sending them an invitation.

Underneath the elegantly curved silver script that

_requested the pleasure of Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson's company at the Holmes' New Year's Eve Ball_

there was another line - in a smaller, less showy typeface - that said

_Guests are advised that the dress code for the evening is formal_.

Which made visions of tuxedos dance in John's head and sent him searching for his – purchased on the cheap for a case involving some missing diamonds, a jobbing actor and a film premiere – almost certain that Sherlock would deem it an unsuitable garment for him to wear in the presence of "Mummy" but nevertheless determined to at least try it on.

Leaving Sherlock – who was muttering about irritating siblings with delusions of grandeur –sat on the sofa in his dressing gown John locked the front door against well-intentioned landladies with an inability to knock, switched both their phones to silent and then headed for the bedroom. Since he probably wasn't going to get to use the tux for its intended purpose again then he may as well get some use out of it. He'd intended to slip it on and then call Sherlock, ostensibly to cast judgement on its acceptability for the ball but really so that he could spend quite some time divesting John of it, piece by piece.

Needless to say, what actually happened was somewhat different.

* * *

_**Again, con-crit is more than welcome, in fact it's positively cosseted and adored!**_


	3. Facing the truth

And … we're back where we started, so to speak.

John's in the bedroom with the trousers – which sounds like the dénouement of the weirdest game of Cluedo ever played, even odder than the game which ended with Sherlock skewering the board to the wall with the pen knife – and it's all about to go to hell in a hand cart.

Which you knew already. It's why you're still reading. But you're more interested in the how and the why. We'll talk about the why first.

John, despite how he's currently behaving, doesn't normally lie to himself. About anything, regardless of how much whatever it is matters to him or what he tells other people. He'll happily admit - only in the solitude of his own head, but still - that while he thought Sherlock was dead he wore the brand of cologne Sherlock had used because it made him feel a bit less like following him off the roof of St Bart's. He was also brutally honest with himself about why he didn't; he wanted to keep Sherlock's memory alive more than he wanted to join him in the next life. Which was a blood good thing too, really, seeing as how it all turned out.

He's also perfectly clear on why he and Harry don't get along.

It wasn't the alcohol. That came much later. No, he and Harry really, genuinely, haven't ever got along. Harry - as far as John can tell because, in all honesty she's never actually told him this straight out – resented John from the moment he was born for apparently no other reason than that he was there. And John? Well he tried, he really tried but when he finally realised that no matter what he did, he could never win her over because she'd always see him as a usurper - an inconvenience who stole her spot and diverted the spotlight of their parents praise - he gave up trying and started to stay out of her way instead. Which was wrong in her eyes too, because then he was one more member of her family not giving her the attention she deserved. The dislike turned to resentment before morphing into hate and then he really got it with both barrels. Because John's new, grown up stance to her behaviour coincided with his body getting geared up for puberty; having always been small and slight, the weight gain that appeared almost overnight made a huge difference to his frame and knocked him off balance even before Harry got going.

For, to Harry, it was a gift from the gods. Golden boy - popular, friendly, hard-working, bright and, as their parents were so fond of saying, not a moments worry, unlike you Harriet with your mouth and your attitude – finally had a visible, obvious flaw. And she really made the most of it.

In front of their parents it was sly, underhand: she suddenly appeared to care about her brother. _Was John alright? Had those comments upset him? Oh, hadn't he heard them? Well, they can't be repeated over the dinner table but ... maybe he shouldn't have pudding tonight, you know, what with everything._

In front of his friends it was more of the same: _You don't think any less of John now he's a bit chubby do you? Anyway, it's not really that bad, is it? Well, not from the back anyway. And he doesn't seem to be able to help himself so we'll just have to be nice about it._

In private it was downright vicious and John refused to repeat, even in his own mind, what she said in each of those awful interludes.

Once he'd got over the shock he dealt with it in the only way he knew how. He ignored her taunts and attacks and, instead, concentrated on doing something about the weight. He started jogging first thing every morning and then, when the Army did a recruitment drive for Cadets at his school – barely a month into Harry's campaign of abuse - he joined up.

Six months later he was a different boy; still one of the shortest of his year group but four inches taller than he had been and a physique so toned you could bounce rocks off his abs. Plus, thanks to the "man in uniform" effect – he was one of only three cadets at his school - he became Mr Popular overnight. And being a typical teenage boy he didn't let it go to waste. Come on now, don't look so surprised. After all which continent did you think he started on?

The girls were the final straw between him and Harry. She called him Soldier Boy and sneered at all his choices and he simply continued to call her Harry and affected an air of pity for her. Pity that became real when the drinking started and then quickly got out of control. He didn't hide his relief when she disappeared off to Uni under a cloud of parental condemnation, not after her three failed attempts to steal John's latest girlfriend.

Their lives moved on, staying in contact for the sake of their parents and because neither of them could quite put aside the sibling bonds that were, underneath it all, still hanging on by a thread. Neither of them ever mentioned John's brief and effective battle with his weight or Harry's part in it and John buried the emotional baggage of the bullying so deep under layers of explanations and excuses for her that it would never see the light of day again - or so he'd thought.

In fact he'd believed the only lasting legacy of that period in his life was turning back to the army - when he'd wanted to make the switch of specialism from general practitioner to trauma surgeon - and the fact that he'd maintained a fitness regime ever since. Even when he'd been invalided home he walked daily despite the limp and did sit ups and push ups when he was able to. Sherlock's "death" provoked the most sustained and intensive exercise schedule he'd kept up since his Sandhurst days and that had continued, escalated in fact – he needed to work out his aggression somehow, given that he couldn't bring himself to punch someone so emaciated and guilt stricken - when Sherlock returned.

But in these last three months? The three months in which Sherlock had completed him in a way he hadn't known was possible until it happened? Morning runs had swiftly been replaced by morning shags, sit ups and push ups often interrupted by Sherlock's hands or mouth – more usually both and between the sex, the cases and Operation Increase for the first time in over twenty years he wasn't doing targeted exercise on a regular basis and was eating more junk food than he'd ever done in his life.

And that, plus the sight of his stomach expanding out of his jeans after that meal and the subsequent thoughts about how vehemently Sherlock abhored overeating, was all it took for those layers to start unravelling faster than a ball of wool under a kitten's paws and for his subconscious to flip into a protective mode that would rival Sherlock at his most dogged.

But lies can only survive while someone believes in them. Just like fairies.

John doesn't believe in fairies.

He's about to stop believing his own lies, too.

Which brings us - rather neatly it must be said - to the how:

The tuxedo was the most aggressively tailored piece of clothing John owned, despite the fact it was off the peg and not made to measure. The trousers had fitted him like a second skin when he'd bought it and judging by Sherlock's reaction when he'd put it on - the atmosphere between them had been so sexually charged John had begun to consider spontaneous human combustion a viable possibility – it had accentuated all the right areas. So he didn't immediately think anything of the fact that he really had to work to get them up his thighs. Especially since he was too busy remembering how Sherlock had almost ripped them off him after he'd dragged him into a disused – and poorly secured – store room in the Leicester Square Odeon, murmuring praises of John's arse and musculature into and unmentioned but very … uh … attentive part of his anatomy.

A memory which was crudely dispelled a moment later when it became clear that the self same arse was now seriously impeding the progress of the trousers and John's memory became very clear on one point – the trousers may have been tight but they weren't this tight. Not by a long shot. And Sherlock certainly hadn't put them through the wash. So this must be down to …. He pushed the thought out of his head, got a better grip on the waistband and yanked, hard. Of course he'd put on a couple of pounds. How could he not when he was eating like he was? But a few pounds wasn't a problem. Not a problem at all and once he'd got the bloody things up and fastened, they'd hang properly, Sherlock wouldn't notice anything untoward at all and everything would be fine. Just fine. Thank you so very much Harry.

Because after all these years he could hear her voice - right at the back of mind, to be sure, but he could hear her - whispering fast, voice sharp with malice and dark delight .

No! He shook his head violently and took a steadying breath, returning his concentration to the matter in hand. Bloody hell they were tight, he thought as he squirmed, redoubling his grip on the waistband and pulling up and round as he attempted to do them up.

He couldn't get the material to meet over his stomach.

He screwed his eyes shut, trying not to think about anything other than the task in hand as he heaved in a breath, pulled his abs in so hard he whimpered at the pain and began trying to force the fastening together. Without success. So he did it again. And again, and again, and again, desperation increasing with every attempt but unwilling to give up because if he could just get them done up then everything would be alright. Just once more, he kept telling himself. Just one more time and they'll fasten and it will all be fine.

_Who do you think you're kidding?_ Harry was back, louder, and suddenly it was as if he were fourteen again, back in his room at home, fighting to get his favourite pair of jeans done up when she'd appeared in the doorway. _There's no way you'll get into those. Not now you've turned into a flabbier version of the Michelin man. Besides, even if you could get them on, it wouldn't matter. No one in their right mind would want you for a boyfriend. Especially not the sort you go for, all tall and slim and sexy. They'd be embarrassed to be seen with you, barely reaching their shoulders and spilling out of your clothes. God, just imagine what you'd look like - beauty and the blob! No, really Johnny, just look at yourself!_She'd stalked into the room and turned him, so he was facing his mirror. _Take a good long look at what you've become!_

And that was it. The lies shattered like terracotta after a frost.

Because he opened his eyes in an effort to get away from the memories and looked straight down at his stomach. Which, framed as it was by the open edges of his shirt at the top and squeezed up by his hands as he continued to try and close the waistband of the trousers, looked positively huge. Releasing the material as if it were something deadly he sagged back onto the bed, covering his face with his hands as he re-assessed everything that had happened in the past five weeks. All the comments, every single time he'd forced his shirt buttons closed and struggled to do up his jeans, all those pretty little stories he'd told himself to excuse it all swirled round his head to the accompaniment of Harry's voice repeatedly hissing You're fat, Johnny, short and fat and disgusting. You turn my stomach. You'd turn anyone's stomach until he couldn't stand it any more and he was back on his feet, wanting nothing so much as to get away from both his body and his mind.

The movement made the tux trousers dig into his hips and constrict round his legs and he scrabbled at them, as desperate to get them off as he had been to get them on not five minutes earlier. _How could he have let this happen?_ he wondered frantically, _What on earth had been thinking?_ _And, more to the point, how was he going to fix this?_ Having nearly fallen getting them off his feet he flung the trousers across the room - with a curse he'd last used when he'd found a camel spider under his camp bed in Sangin - and then, very, very slowly, he brought his hands back to his torso and forced himself to look properly at his body.

The fear and panic hit him solidly in the chest as his hands mapped the bulge of his newly acquired belly, fingers having to probe into the yielding flesh in order to confirm that yes, his abs were still there, still quite strong and well-developed too, but just hidden by this … abomination he'd visited on himself. This wasn't just a couple of pounds, he conceded, cupping his stomach and then running his hands round his - now significantly more padded - hips. This was much more than stone, probably closer to two and it wasn't going to be hidden easily. He tried though, sucking his muscles in again, tightening them as much as he could and watching, with growing terror, as bulge receded but remained stubbornly present, the curves quivering with the effort involved until he couldn't hold them anymore and his gut sprang back out, dragging a sob from his chest as it did.

At which point a soft _John?_ stopped him in his tracks and he looked up to met Sherlock's eyes. Instantly the maelstrom in his head was gone, leaving behind the one thought that he'd been trying not to think.

Sherlock wouldn't want him once he realised what John had become.

He whirled away from the door as if he'd been electrocuted, grabbing haphazardly at his jeans and t-shirt while keeping his back to Sherlock as he tried to hide himself. Except the t-shirt strained over his stomach and he was shaking so much he couldn't get a proper grip on the jeans to force the buttons closed. He didn't know what he was saying - shouting actually but lets not be too picky here - but he knew "go away" was the most polite of the phrases. Unwilling to turn round while still hanging out of unfastened clothes he risked a quick look back over his shoulder in the hope Sherlock had gone and he could find some jogging bottoms and at least make a start on repairing the damage.

He hadn't. He was still there. Frozen in place with an expression so horrified that John knew he'd seen everything. _Of course he had_, Harry's voice supplied, _he's Sherlock Holmes, how could he miss his partner turning into a blimp right under his nose._

Pulling his abused stomach muscles in one more time he managed to get his jeans done up, biting his lip as he let them back out and his gut expanded out over the top of the too-tight waist band, t-shirt riding up at the same time to leave a strip of flesh visible. Slowly, tugging the t-shirt down as best he could, John turned back towards Sherlock. His cheeks burned red as he moved and he knew he was _this_ close to fucking bursting into tears but he didn't stop. He couldn't hide so he'd just had to get it over with. Only the vain hope that it would hurt less facing it all at once -like when you need to get a plaster off and just rip it - keeping him moving.

And then he was facing Sherlock and they just stared at each other - John's gaze a mix of mortification and defiance and Sherlock's wide eyed with worry - until the silence was stretched so taut between them that if you'd given Sherlock his bow he could probably have got a tune out of it.

John was waiting for Sherlock to tell him to leave, to use the words he could still hear Harry sayings, to confirm that he was as vile and gross as he felt. And Sherlock? Well, for the second time in his life - the first being when he'd returned and tried to find some words to say to John - he was completely at a loss. He could see John's distress but had no clue as to which of the several possibilities he could deduce was actually causing it, nor any inkling how to make it better. So he said nothing.

Which didn't turn out so well because in the silence John's fear turned to anger - anger at himself, at Harry's words from long ago which were still echoing in his head, at the whole situation in general - and eventually it exploded out of him with no warning.

"Why didn't you say something?" he snarled, stalking forward a couple of steps "You have to have noticed this … this …" he prodded his stomach, hard, making a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, "before now. You notice everything. It's what you do and I've never know you to be backward at coming forward So? … Come on Sherlock! Explain to me why the hell didn't you tell me I was turning into a blimp?"

Sherlock opened his mouth but John couldn't hold himself in check long enough to let him speak.

"Was it an experiment, Sherlock? Is that it? Did you want to see how long I could delude myself into pretending everything was ok? That I wasn't gaining weight faster than you can say slob? Was that why you started doing the washing? To give me something to blame for my clothes barely doing up? Is that why you've been so affectionate lately? And excuse to measure my body as it expanded?" He paused for breath; one heartbeat, then two, and when he continued his voice was quieter but there was a hitch in it that made Sherlock swallow uncomfortably. "How did you bring yourself to touch me, Sherlock? I know how much fat revolts you, what you think of people who let themselves go. I don't understand! Why haven't you just told me to go? Why haven't you made me leave?"

"Because I love you!" Sherlock yelled back, striding across the room and grabbing John by the shoulders as the horror that John would think he wasn't wanted gripped him like a vice, "Because I don't care about the weight, John! Because I like it!"

The air between them seemed to solidify, John's expression a mix of disbelief and confusion that would have wrenched even Mycroft's heart. Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it again and John took the action for a mute denial of what he'd just said and turned away, only to have his arm caught and to find himself wrapped in Sherlock, held close as Sherlock's pressed his lips to John's temple and murmured _listen, listen,_into his skin.

John stilled, the plea in that voice - a voice so low and so undone that John had no defence against it - enough to let him lean into the hold, close his eyes and let Sherlock explain. Later John would say that he'd had no idea what Sherlock was about to say but that, if he'd had to guess, he would never have come up with Sherlock's real reason in a million years.

Because Sherlock spoke about love.

He spoke about a childhood filled with empty words and emptier gestures. One where he was tolerated and not treasured, where he looked on as Mycroft was showered with time and care and was shown just how much he meant to their Father whilst he was offered tokens - always in front of others - but otherwise ignored. He understood why, eventually, when Mycroft had taken him to one side and begged him to rein in his tongue and attitude because there was only so much a man like Father could be expected to take from the cuckoo in the nest.

He spoke about what he'd then said to his Mother, the following conversation with the man he had called Father, how he came to understand why Mycroft said that caring was not an advantage. How he began realise that worth was not inherent but had to be earned and exactly how little he possessed that those he called family actually wanted.

He spoke of University, of meeting Victor, of thinking that longing looks and whispered promises equated to love and being proved wrong so ... so visibly, so undeniably wrong that he finally learnt how to shut the feelings down. Learnt how to switch off, to wrap himself entirely in a label that would keep society at arms length.

Because alone was what he needed. Alone was the only thing that could protect him, that would allow him to keep his heart in a safe harbour.

And alone was how he had stayed. He finished out Uni and then, when Mycroft cut off his allowance and finally - when he realised that Sherlock was more than capable of generating his own income - banished his vein-searing comfort by force, he took up with a new master. Restraint. Restraint in all things. Which was infinitely more satisfactory, given that he needed nothing but himself and his infinite capacity for thought to elicit satisfactory results. Food became a way of keeping score, his body the outward manifestation of his success. Thin equalled successful restraint equalled safety - nothing more and nothing less would do.

And it had been enough. He had been content, after a fashion, until five foot seven of army doctor had entered his life and brushed aside his cloak of sociopathy as if it were less substantial than mist and insinuated himself into Sherlock's world as if he were meant to be there.

Sherlock's voice grew calmer as he continued to talk about John, his John and the happiness that he'd brought into Sherlock's life. Happiness he had seen in others but not understood in connection to himself until the moment he'd seen the paint on the flat windows and thought it might be taken away before he had a chance to explore it.

He talked of fear, of the fear of driving him away but being unable to change the habits of a life time, the fear that Moriarty would succeed where his own defects had failed and then those three years, the years they still didn't talk of much. He talked of the absence of John in life, at his side, of how it had become like a weeping wound in Sherlock's heart, infecting every part of his life and making every day an agony of necessity over need. For the first time Sherlock had found exercising restraint a trial rather than a comfort but even so, when he returned, when he finally found himself acting on what he wanted he couldn't give it up completely. Food, once again, became the constant, the one thing that he could hold over from his old life as he learnt how show his love for John in a way John could understand. Even when he realised he was getting out of control, that he was reaching the point his body would simply give up he couldn't stop, couldn't make adjustments for his new lifestyle, couldn't let go. But yet again John was ahead of him, making it OK, making it right.

John's arms tightened round Sherlock as he talked of the epiphany he'd had that night, after that blow-out meal at Angelo's. The realisation - born of feeling properly full himself for the first time in years - that John had seen, had understood and instead of shouting or threatening, had simply worked round Sherlock's limitations to make him well had been like a petrol poured on a bonfire. He'd thought about the bits of chocolate, the carrot sticks and all other random offerings and slightly out of character behaviour and realised that John had cared enough to find out what he could cope with, what he felt comfortable with and had done so in such a way that Sherlock hadn't been made to feel like a freak.

His voice cracked as he recounted how, as he'd held John that night and massaged his overfilled stomach while he moaned and shifted and suffered, he'd been overwhelmed by the concrete, visible proof beneath his hands that John loved him. Really, truly loved him. All of him, even the odd bits and the strange habits and the rules he'd been living by.

He closed his eyes as he spoke of the relief it had been just to let John look after him, knowing that he was in safe hands, that he didn't have to keep thinking about it because John knew, John understood and John, of all the people in this world, could be trusted with his body and his heart.

And then he spoke of watching John's weight start to creep up. Of the warm glow the sight fired inside him because - in a similar way to how his own body had been a measure of his own success - John's body was a visible testament to the fact that Sherlock was loved. As the days passed and John's stomach curved a little more, his arse filled out more of his jeans and his thighs grew a little more plump, Sherlock felt like it was a huge neon sign to the world that he, Sherlock, was worthy of being happy, worthy of being loved, worthy of someone else's efforts.

Then he stopped, turned John in his arms so he could look at him properly, took a steadying breath and simply said, "Thank you, John, for loving me just as I am".

At which point John had given him a beaming smile then promptly burst into tears, sobbing his heart and his fears out into Sherlock's chest.

Eventually the sobs gave way to gasped apologies and half sentences that even Sherlock's brain struggled to find any sense in. He just held John, occasionally pressing a kiss to the top of his head as he rubbed his back, letting him get everything out of his system until he judged him recovered enough to be moved to the kitchen. He settled John in a chair with a glass of water and a damp flannel to wipe his blotchy face and proceeded to make the one thing he was sure would help. Tea. He even had the presence of mind to move the biscuit tin off the table, which gained him a very wobbly but none-the-less grateful smile from John. Who wrapped his hands round his mug, took a small sip, gave a sigh of contentment and resignation and then told Sherlock all about Harry and everything that went along with it.

It was dark before they'd finished talking - nearly eight hours since John had gone into the bedroom thinking about nothing more than seducing Sherlock and then maybe, once they'd recovered, going to do a bit of Christmas shopping - and they both looked like they'd been rung dry. Hearts had been opened, plans had been made, promises given and received and, although it was going to be a difficult road for a while, both of them were confident that together they would get through this. After all, they'd been through so much already they weren't about to let a few pounds be the thing that defeated them.

"Do you want some food?" Sherlock said tentatively when John's stomach gave a small rumble of discontent, "We could get a takeaway. You haven't had Tandori Chicken for ages."

John's tongue flickered over his lips as he reached across the table for Sherlock's hand, "Yeah, alright. Will you just have some of mine or …"

"I'll get a Sag Bhaji and we can split both. We'll go shopping for proper food tomorrow."

John smiled properly, Sherlock's face mirroring him instantly and the remaining tension lifted. Sherlock stood, moving to the side where the menus were scattered but then he turned back, pulled John up from the table and kissed him, sweet and slow.

"I'm not going to call them quite yet," he panted into John's ear when they broke apart, hands roaming over John's back and tugging at his t-shirt.

"Oh really?" The purr in John's voice told Sherlock he'd been right to go in this direction, the teasing "Why ever not?" as John's hands cupped his arse just confirmed it.

"Because I want to take you to bed and do wicked things to you," Sherlock murmured, feathering kisses onto John's neck. "You did say vigorous exercise was the order of the day didn't you?"

John's laughter, echoing vibrantly round 221B, was all the reward Sherlock needed. It wasn't the only reward he got though - John may have felt a little awkward about his body once they got into the bedroom but that didn't last long once Sherlock started lavishing every inch of him with love - but what precisely that entailed is for a different story, one with a much higher rating!

* * *

**Authors Note:**

Apologies for this taking so long.  
To be honest this chapter nearly broke me and I'm just really, really glad I'm finally posting it.  
The wonderful Kizzia has held my hand, helped me write and re-write and write again and beta'd this earlier before I then fiddled with it some more. All mistakes are therefore my own.  
I hope you enjoy it. Or at least don't hate it!


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